Troubles at Vanya's
by Italian writer
Summary: An alternative to "The Fifteen Years Later Affair". What if Illya and Napoleon had reunited in a totally different circumstance? Many thanks to girl in the glen for beta reading.
1. Chapter 1

**Troubles at Vanya's**

At seven o'clock on a warm, spring Wednesday morning, Illya Kuryakin opened the doors to his workroom at the House of Vanya as he had every single morning since he first founded it, ten years ago. The early start made it possible for him to enjoy peace and quiet for a couple of hours and take care of the administrative part of his job before his employees came in and the rush of activities began. He loved the place when it was empty, letting it remind him of his achievements in this difficult line of business. Apparently it was much easier to dodge bullets than to sell women's couture fashions.

Chyort! There it was again; UNCLE. Why couldn't he keep it out of his mind, just for one day? He resigned from the agency ten years ago, and yet that period of his life never really left his thoughts or his heart; the memories insisted in sneaking out of his consciousness at the most unpredictable moments.

As usual, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and proceeded to light up the place. He was in front of the main electrical board when he heard a muffled sound coming from somewhere near the dressing booths. His right hand instinctively ran to his left armpit, where his holster used to be. His hand came back empty, and he blankly stared at it for a moment, before remembering that a gun was not part of a fashion designer's ordinary gear. Well, he could hardly face a potential thief with a sewing needle, so he resolved to grab a big, solid-looking wooden tailor's ruler. If handled knowledgably, even such a seemingly harmless tool could seriously damage a human body.

Illya had already lit all the powerful lights of the premise, so it was a matter of moments before finding the intruder's hiding place. He cautiously and silently opened all the changing booth doors. Since there were no locks, Illya just pushed the doors open with his ruler, to avoid being hit in case the intruder was armed and determined to shoot his way out of the place.

Kuryakin found what he was looking for in the third booth, but it was far from what he expected.

It was a woman, disheveled and straining against fear. She was also, according to Illya's practiced scrutiny, injured. She was holding her side, where her white cotton shirt was soaked with what looked like fresh blood. She wasn't armed, and her condition certainly did not allow Illya to classify her as a threat. When he bent down to check on her wound, she whimpered and tried to move away from his touch.

"Please, don't hurt me."

Illya picked a southern accent. He answered in what he hoped sounded like a soft, reassuring voice.

"I don't want to hurt you. If you tell me who you are and what you're doing in my dressing room, I will do my best to help you. That injury looks serious."

The woman relaxed slightly, but she still looked quite wary.

"It's a bullet wound, but I cannot go to a hospital. They will find me and finish me off."

All his previous training abruptly kicked in.

"Who will?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind that. You'd be better off not knowing anything about this filthy affair. You look like a nice guy, I don't want to put you into any type of danger."

Illya smiled to himself. A dangerous affair? It used to be his daily bread. Right, he reminded to himself: _used_ to be.

The former spy replied drily to her attempt at protecting him.

"So, do you plan to just hide in my changing booth until you bleed to death?"

The injured woman grimaced against the pain, her pretty face straining to not show any weakness. She managed to stand with obvious effort.

"No, I plan to leave this place as soon as I…"

She couldn't finish her sentence: her face drained of all color as she collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

'Bohze moi! Now what am I supposed to do?' Illya asked himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Illya stared at the unconscious woman for a few seconds, but years of training kicked in as he bent down to check her injury. The bullet had entered the most peripheral part of her left abdominal muscle, which sported a neat exit hole on the opposite side. No organs had been hit, and all main arteries had clearly been spared, for the blood was slowly oozing out of the wound. The only variable was the time that the woman had spent bleeding. Judging from the small pool of blood on his changing room floor and the quantity absorbed by her clothes it was minimal. However, the woman was clearly in shock, and the wound needed stitching.

On impulse, Illya decided to help her without warning the authorities and without involving a doctor. She seemed pretty serious when she said that her enemies would chase her even inside a hospital. Grabbing a large piece of muslin from a nearby bin, he made a rough bandage and wrapped it around her sides to help stem the bleeding. Illya located a warm coat from a nearby rack and wrapped it around his latest stray, and gently picked her up.

He carried her to his car, which was parked in his private underground parking lot. Nobody saw him, but for good measure he briefly checked the darkest angles of the parking lot in search of intruders. He realized he was being paranoid, but that intensity of caution had often saved him during his most dangerous years.

Illya drove the thirty minutes to his house by constantly checking the rear-view mirror, but he didn't spot any pursuing car. He lived in a beautiful house in Long Island, surrounded by a tall stone wall and protected by a state-of-the-art security system. He opened the automatic gate only when he was in front of it, and waited until it was completely locked, to avoid anyone entering his property during the slow closing motion of the large gate's wings. He didn't bother to park his car in the garage, and just stopped in front of the main door. He cautiously removed the woman from the back seat and carried her to his nicest guest room on the second floor.

The bed was always made in case of last-minute guests, although he rarely had guests at all. He was not known as an exceedingly social person. His gatherings were strictly of a working nature, and he much preferred to spend his spare time in the quiet seclusion of his beautiful property.

Once he had gathered all the tools he needed to stitch the wound, he spread out a large towel under the woman's body and proceeded to undress her. He moved very cautiously to avoid hurting her further. He easily removed her large, shapeless trousers, and quickly cut the man's T-shirt that she was wearing. Her underwear was nothing fancy, but that did little to distract from her shapely figure, something Illya couldn't help appreciating. After the momentary distraction, he resumed his task, covering her with a thick, soft blanket to keep her warm during his ministrations.

She looked in her forties, but she was quite fit, and her face was very attractive: she had a thick mane of unruly coppery curls, and he remembered that her eyes were an outstanding green color, with golden straws around the pupils. Her lips were full and rosy, although right now they looked quite chapped, probably from dehydration. Her skin was very hot at his touch, indicating a temperature caused by the infection that was undoubtedly spreading from her wound.

Illya could not afford to waste any more time. He proceeded to disinfect the injured tissue and the needle, and set to his difficult task with a sigh. Although he had previously sprayed the area with a liquid analgesic, he knew that the sharp pain caused by the needle would cause her to come around rather painfully, but he had no way of avoiding that.

As expected, as soon as the stitching needle entered her inflamed flesh, the woman woke with a start and a shriek. She grabbed his wrist with a surprisingly strong hold and asked: "What do you think you're doing?"

Illya showed her the needle and answered, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

"I'm trying to stitch you up. You didn't want to go to the hospital, and you were bleeding in my changing booth, so I brought you here to my home, and now I'm trying to save your life.'

He paused to let her try and absorb the information, then added:

"I don't have any serious analgesic, so I'm afraid you will just have to hang on. Do you think you can stand the pain?"

The woman swallowed, then made a very resolute expression.

"I think so. But do you know what you're doing? I'm not a piece of cloth, you know?"

Illya's lips creased in a small smile, memories once again flooding his mind.

"Don't worry, I've done it many times. On people, I mean, not just on clothes. And I know that you won't have to stand it for very long."

"What do you…. ARRGHH! That hurt!"

While she was talking, Illya had inserted the needle again, and now was proceeding as fast as he could, refusing to be moved by the woman's shouts of pain. As expected, she passed out after a couple of minutes, allowing him to move faster and more efficiently.

After ten minutes he had stitched both sides of the wound, and was happy to notice that the bleeding had subsided. He profusely disinfected the area and skillfully bandaged it. Once he had tucked her body under the covers, he placed a wet cloth on her forehead and gave her two little slaps on her cheeks to revive her.

When she opened her eyes, blinking in confusion, he was quick to explain.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you rest. I want you to take some antibiotics to fight the infection.'

The blond designer turned field surgeon was emphatic.

"Here, swallow these."

She looked at him with a very suspicious frown, eliciting from him a bemused grin.

"Look, I already had half a dozen different chances of killing you, if that were my intention. I would hardly need to poison you. Don't you think you can trust me by now?"

He handed her two brightly colored capsules and a glass of water that she drank thankfully. Then she leaned back on the pillows, looking exhausted.

Having accomplished what was necessary to save the woman's life, Illya thought he deserved some answers from her.

"Do you feel like telling me who you are and what has happened to you?"

The patient opened her eyes and directed a piercing glaze into Illya's, trying to read him. The Russian knew from years of experience that his earnest face and baby blue eyes inspired confidence in most people, so he just looked back at her with his trademark, innocent expression.

It seemed to work, for the woman's own expression relaxed and she started to talk.

"My name is Stephanie Rogers. I work for a government agency and was shot during a mission."

Illya was disappointed: "Is that all? You're not going to tell me what agency you work for and who shot you?"

"I told you, I don't want to involve you. All I can say, I'm with the good guys, so you did the right thing by helping me. But tell me, who do I owe my life to?"

Illya knew a sidetracking strategy when he saw one, but decided to humor her.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. I own the premises you chose for your hiding place, and I…"

He stopped. She was looking at him with wide-open eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She stammered in search of a reply.

"I… I thought your name was Vanya."

He shook his head. "No, that's just my company's name. Would you please tell me why you keep staring at me with that flabbergasted look?"

"You're Illya Kuryakin?"

She was obviously surprised, and questioning him again about his identity seemed to trigger a hint of anger in the normally cool blond.

"I think I just told you. Why is my name having such a detrimental effect on your cognitive abilities?"

With some difficulties, she regained her composure, straightened up on the pillows and dropped her bomb.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I work for UNCLE."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Now it was Illya's turn to stare at her open-eyed.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

She shook her head. "I assure you it isn't, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya wasn't easily convinced, for he did not believe in coincidences.

"Then how did you end up hiding in my premises? The premises of a former UNCLE agent?"

She smiled at that comment.

"And not an ordinary one at that: you're one half of the most renowned UNCLE teams in its entire history. I must say, it's a great honor to meet you, Mr. Kuryakin."

Despite the oddity of the situation, Illya felt embarrassed by her words and by the evident admiration shining in her eyes.

"You're talking about many years ago. It's all in the past, now. And please, call me Illya."

"It might be in the past, but we are still studying your missions in our textbooks. You and your partner are quite a legend in the community."

He asked, giving in to his curiosity.

"I heard that Mr. Waverly recently passed away. Who's in charge of the organization, now?"

"His name is Sir John Raleigh. He's a Brit, but he's all right."

He still had another curiosity to satisfy.

"Are there many female agents among the UNCLE ranks, now?"

She smiled proudly.

"Oh yes. I would say one third of the active agents are women. And they have raised the maximum age: now agents can remain active for as long as they wish to. I, for example, have been an operative for about fifteen years, and have no intention to quit, although I'm well over forty."

He could not suppress his admiration, and said so.

"You must be good, if you have managed to stay alive for fifteen years of active service."

She smiled, and he realized the rudeness of his own words.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that women are any less than men or that they are doomed to die young. All I wanted to say was…"

She interrupted him, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

"I know what you wanted to say, Illya, don't worry. I've read about the 'old days' when active service was a prerogative of men. Things are different, now. But you're right: most agents _are_ doomed to die young, either men or women. That hasn't changed, unfortunately."

She took his hand and squeezed, adding: "And if it weren't for you, _I_ would be one of those dead young agents, too. Thank you."

He smiled, captivated by those sparkling green eyes, and returned the squeeze.

"You're very welcome. But I can feel that you're still quite hot. You need to rest now, and allow your body to work the fever out. You should be quite safe here, so you can afford to sleep for a couple of hours. I will be here when you wake up."

He then tucked her under the covers, brushed away a stray lock of hair from her forehead and switched the light off.

He moved to the kitchen and prepared to fix a hearty meal. He knew by experience that waking up after being shot always roused a very robust appetite. Well, almost everything did, when he was younger. Now he had to watch the calorie intake, but he proudly sported a still fit body, mainly thanks to the ten miles he ran every morning. He also kept taking ju-jitsu lessons and paid regular visits to the shooting range; old habits die hard.

While he was cooking, he couldn't help thinking about the 'old times', as Stephanie called them. He had conflicting feelings about them. It certainly had been the most eventful and exciting period of his life, but the bitterness that accompanied his leave was still an open wound. He had to admit that he would never have left UNCLE if his friend Napoleon were still at his side. But his friend and partner had left a couple of years before him, creating a gap that was never filled. He realized that Stephanie reminded him of the girl he was assigned to protect during that last, fatal mission. The girl he _failed_ to protect. Gripping the knife he was holding to chop the vegetables, he swore to himself that he would not fail _this_ girl, and would help her in whatever she had to accomplish, thus voiding the oath he took when he left UNCLE.

Less than two hours later, Illya was watching the news, in search of any information that might relate to Stephanie's mission, but there was just too much going on in the world, and every day looked worse than the previous one. She could be involved in any one of those catastrophic events. While he was mulling over the disastrous situation of the eighties, he heard a faint muffled sound coming from behind him. He darted from the couch, rolled on his back on the floor and aimed the TV's remote at the source of the sound.

It was Stephanie, who raised her hands, and with a very straight face responded to the man and his _weapon_.

"I surrender. Please, don't turn me off."

He relaxed and looked at his weapon, embarrassed at his actions.

"I'm making myself ridiculous, I know, but I'm not used to having other people moving around in my house."

She lowered her arms and approached him.

"Ridiculous? Are you kidding? I've never seen anyone move quite so fast. If that were a gun and not a remote, I would probably be history by now. Now I know I must never approach you stealthy from behind."

He looked at her suspiciously.

"Were you testing me?"

She smiled sheepishly.

"Yes. Please don't be upset. I just wanted to see if you lived up to your legend."

He frowned at her.

"And did I pass the test?"

"With an A." Then her smile disappeared. "Oh, come on, don't scowl at me. You would have done the same with a fellow agent."

Illya decided to drop the issue: it was too hard to glower at that pretty face for long.

"I guess you're right. Are you hungry?"

Her smile reappeared. "I'm starving."

He returned her smile.

"Good. I took the liberty of preparing cold pasta, vegetables and roast chicken. I hope you're not on a diet. Every woman of the eighties seems to be."

He helped her gallantly to a chair and she sat down gracefully.

"No need to worry, your efforts won't be wasted. I could eat a buffalo!"

Illya had to admit that she was a worthy opponent: her appetite matched his, and they rapidly gobbled everything up.

After lunch she helped him tidy up the kitchen. He unobtrusively looked at her, moving about bare-footed and dressed in pair of his trousers and one of his shirts. She was the first woman to ever enter his retreat, although he often saw other women, of course; but he never allowed them access to what he considered his haven.

For some reason, his relationships were short-lived, and he still hadn't found a woman he could trust with his most intimate feelings. Now, in a very strange turn of events, a complete stranger was roaming his house, and yet he didn't feel violated. All he could feel was an odd sense of trust. He thought that maybe the fact that he once was an UNCLE agent like her made him feel in tune with this particular woman.

He mentally kicked himself when he saw a small spot of red on the side of her shirt. He completely forgot about her wound. She was so lively, she hardly looked injured at all. That woman was pretty tough.

"You'd better sit down and let me look at your wound. You're bleeding again."

Surprised, she looked at her side. "Darn! I stained your nice shirt."

"Don't worry about the shirt. Here, let me check."

He made her sit down and gently lifted the shirt. The bandage was slightly red, but nothing terribly worrying.

"I need to change your bandage, and check if the stitches are holding."

She smiled and gave him permission to do what was necessary.

"Do proceed, doctor Kuryakin. I know I'm in good hands."

Witty. Smiling to himself, Illya removed the stained bandage and ensured that the stitches were firmly in place, disinfected the wound again and applied a fresh bandage.

He had just finished buttoning up the shirt, when suddenly the piercing sound of the alarm system made their hearts skip a beat. Both Illya and Stephanie reached for guns automatically but neither was wearing a holster. They sprang to their feet simultaneously, but headed in opposite directions. Illya needed to know where the intruder had entered the house, and the alarm's central control indicated the window in the laundry room. Before running there, he stopped at his desk, unlocked a combination drawer and rapidly extracted his gun and two packs of ammunition. By the time he reached the laundry someone had already broken in; the door was open and the window's glass was shattered on the floor.

Illya hastily locked the door to prevent any more intruders from entering before going in search of Stephanie. He needed to find her before the man or men who had violated his retreat reached the wounded agent.

He headed for the guest room first, thinking that Stephanie might have gone to retrieve her shoes for a fast getaway. As he climbed the stairs Illya saw a shadow moving stealthily in his bedroom. It was too tall and big to be Stephanie, and was completely clad in black. He didn't hesitate; he silently loaded his gun and aimed it at the figure that had crouched down to look under the bed.

Illya addressed the intruder in a low and steady voice.

"Drop your gun and raise your hands."

Then he loudly slid his gun's carriage, to let the man know that he was armed. But the thug decided to take his chance and turned, firing his gun at the Russian.

Illya expected that desperate move, and had already ducked. He was the second to fire, but he wasn't the one who missed. The man dropped without a sound, a red stain quickly spreading over his heart. Illya rapidly searched his pockets, but he didn't really expect to find anything revealing. The only thing he found was a picture of Stephanie, along with her name and code number. He quickly pocketed it and stood, distracted by a sound coming from the door.

It was Stephanie, who was grasping one of his sharpest kitchen knives. He turned and grabbed her hand, aware that she had indeed put on her shoes.

"Let's get out of here. I'm sure that man wasn't alone."

They ran to the garage, which housed Illya's second car, a big and sturdy four-wheel drive that sported an oversized front bumper. They swiftly took their seats, and Illya pushed a button to open the automated garage door. He turned the ignition and flattened the accelerator pedal. The big car leaped ahead and skidded on the gravel, bombarding the house's wall with pebbles.

A second button opened the gate, which turned out to be blocked by a car parked sideways in front of it. Illya didn't bother to slow down. He just warned his passenger: "Brace yourself!", then rammed into the sedan, virtually slamming it a few feet away.

As they sped away, Illya cast a glance at his companion.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Yes. Do you think that man was after me?"

He handed her the picture he found in the thug's pocket.

"Yes. You were his target. I wonder how he found out where you were hiding. Maybe your clothes were bugged."

She shook her head. "Impossible. I took the precaution of changing them after I was shot. I stole them from someone's hanging line."

He pondered. "Mmmh. Then maybe they bugged my car. Could it be THRUSH?"

She shook her head again. "No. THRUSH was defeated ten years ago, and has never risen from its ashes. I think that thug was sent by the man I have been assigned to stop, Alexandre Renard. He's a Frenchman, and the boss of a very powerful and very organized gang of drug dealers. He owns a Midtown bar that's very popular with college students, and uses it as a base to push drugs. I infiltrated his organization, but someone blew my cover. That's how I ended up in your place of business."

Illya considered this, disdaining what Stephanie described.

"You were right: a very filthy affair. I hate people who sell drugs to kids."

She put a comforting hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry I involved you in all this. I know you didn't want anything to do with UNCLE anymore."

Illya was surprised by Stephanie's statement.

"You do? How is that?"

"I read about your last mission, and I think I know how you felt back then. I probably would have done the same. But you still have time. Just drop me somewhere in the city and take a long vacation some place nice and far. You won't hear from me anymore."

On impulse Illya pulled over and put the car in park. He covered her hand with his and looked her in the eye.

"Listen to me, Stephanie: I don't know why this bizarre turn of events has put you in my changing room in the first place, but now that you're in my life I'm not going to let you slip away as though nothing happened. I took the trouble of saving your life, and I think perhaps you owe me the opportunity to see this through. Please, let me help you."

She smiled at the handsome blond, glad that he wanted to stay by her side.

"Far be it from me to spoil your fun, Mr. Kuryakin. Please, do carry on."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Illya asked: "What's our next step?"

Stephanie answered: "I guess I should hit base and inform Sir Raleigh that my cover has been blown. I also need some fresh clothes and a new gun."

Illya said to himself: _'Well, how's that? I'm going back to UNCLE after all these years. Quite an eventful day.'_

Stephanie cast him a sideways glance and said: "I know how you must feel, but there's no need to worry: UNCLE is very different now. Even the HQs have changed a lot. You'll see."

She directed him away from the route to Del Floria's, and they headed to a nice tall building near the Central Park area. They parked the car in Stephanie's own parking spot and Illya noticed a glass door sporting a big sign: "U.N.C.L.E. United Network Command for Law Enforcement." So much for secrecy, Illya thought.

But before they were able to reach the door, they heard the screeching sound of braking tyres. They both instinctively took cover behind Illya's car, not wanting to shoot back in the street, for fear of hitting some innocent passers-by. They heard the clanging of bullets hitting the car's side, but luckily the sturdy vehicle protected them from the lethal cluster of lead. Their enemies didn't dare stop in front of UNCLE headquarters, and just sped away, without even checking the outcomes of their attack.

Illya and Stephanie jumped back in the car. The Russian quickly checked that the tyres and the engine were undamaged, and turned the car back on. He tried to chase their attackers, but they had already disappeared into the heavy traffic.

He asked his passenger: "Looks like UNCLE HQs are inaccessible grounds. What's your plan B?"

The woman answered: "I don't have a plan B."

He retorted: "That's very careless. You should _always_ have a plan B."

Stephanie tried to bite back a snappy remark, knowing that he was right, and asked: "Did you always afford the luxury of a plan B?"

Illya made a small self-conscious smile and said: "No, but when we didn't have it, we just made one up."

She said: "Well, make one up now, because we need it badly."

The Russian's smile widened. "I think I just did.", then he focused on driving as fast as he could and didn't offer any more explanations.

After approximately five minutes of driving in the thick New York traffic, Stephanie couldn't resist anymore.

"Aren't you going to tell me where we're heading to?"

"To a Midtown hotel."

The woman was silent for a couple of minutes, then asked again: "Are we going to stay at a hotel? What for?"

Illya shook his head and answered: "We aren't going to stay. We're just going to pay a little visit to an old friend."

As soon as she realized who that 'old friend' was, Stephanie's mouth opened into a huge smile. "You mean… we're going to meet the famous Napoleon Solo?"

Illya briefly glanced at her and asked, in a sour tone: "Is the thought of meeting my old partner so appealing to you? That smile is cracking your face."

The woman immediately controlled her reactions and somewhat managed to tune down the smile to a satisfied grin. "Sorry. It's just that… well, you know, it's like meeting a legend." Not missing his hurt expression, she immediately corrected herself. "Another legend, I mean. And on the same day, too. All my colleagues will envy me, especially the women."

Illya mumbled, but did not press the subject.

He pulled over in front of a top-class hotel, and threw the car keys to the valet. At the front desk, he asked the uniformed receptionist: "Is Mr. Solo in his suite?"

"Yes. Would you like me to announce you?"

The Russian nodded. "Please. Tell him his uncle needs to see him."

The man talked briefly into the intercom, then said: "Mr. Solo will see you right away. Upper floor, suite no. 6".

While the elevator was swiftly carrying them to the last floor, Illya tried to analyze his own feelings about seeing his old partner again after all those years. He was glad, of course, but he was also quite uneasy. For some reason, they hadn't stayed in touch, and the thought of seeing him again brought back both pleasant and unpleasant memories to his mind.

When the elevator's doors opened in front of Solo's suite, Illya froze: his friend was standing in the hallway, his features expressing his surprise at seeing him. As soon as Illya stepped out of the elevator, Napoleon reached him in two long strides and squeezed him in a bear hug. The Russian could almost feel the waves of emotion coming from his old friend, and couldn't help reciprocating them. He closed his eyes and returned the hug, patting Napoleon's back enthusiastically.

"God, Illya, it's so good to see you. After all these years." Then Napoleon noticed his friend's companion, staring at him in awe and smiling gleefully: "And in lovely company, too. Aren't you going to introduce me to your... uhm... friend?"

They broke the amicable hug, and Illya formally introduced the woman: "Napoleon, meet Stephanie Rogers. Stephanie, I guess my old friend doesn't need an introduction."

Napoleon took the woman's hand and gallantly kissed it, boring into her green eyes with his own dark chocolate ones, his famous charm at full power. He murmured, in a warm baritone: "Delighted to meet you, Ms. Rogers."

Illya's eyes rolled to the ceiling for a moment, and he moaned softly: how many times had he seen this scene before? He decided to stop Napoleon's advances before Stephanie melted in a puddle at his friend's feet.

He said: "As much as I wished this were a social call, I'm afraid we are here on a much graver reason, Napoleon."

Solo's curiosity was now piqued, and he managed to let go of the woman's hand, at last. "Oh? Why don't we make ourselves comfortable, then?"

He led his two visitors inside his elegantly appointed suite, and showed them to the couch.

Consistently with his character, Illya skipped the niceties and went straight to the point. "Don't let Stephanie's aspect fool you, Napoleon: she's an UNCLE agent."

Solo's smile widened. "Really? Well, how's that? You show up after fifteen years of complete silence, and you do that in the company of an UNCLE agent, no less. Somehow, I don't think that's a coincidence."

The Russian didn't miss his friend's not too subtle criticism. "I don't recall receiving any calls from you either during those same fifteen years."

Napoleon's smile had now disappeared, replaced by a much sterner expression. "I did try to contact you, but you disappeared into nothingness. Not even Mr. Waverly knew how to reach you."

Illya's gaze dropped to the floor. " He did know. I just asked him not to tell anybody. Not even you."

Napoleon was flabbergasted. "Why, Illya?"

At last the Russian managed to look into his friend's questioning eyes. "Because my last mission was a complete failure, and the woman I was supposed to protect was killed by THRUSH. I didn't feel like explaining the whole situation to anybody. And you had already left. Why bother you?"

Solo's look was hurt when he answered: "Because I wasn't just your ex-partner. I was also your friend."

Illya's gaze dropped once again to the floor, unable to sustain Napoleon's pained look. "I realize that now. I actually realized it quite a few years ago, but it was too late to put things right."

Napoleon's earnest smile reappeared. "It's never too late, you stubborn Russian."

Illya's boyish smile magically erased fifteen years of hurt silence between the two men.

Stephanie discretely coughed to remind them of the problem at hand, then said, in an apologetic tone: "I'm really sorry to interrupt such a moving reconciliation, but we really should get to work, now."

Napoleon asked: "Work? What kind of _work _is she talking about, Illya?"

Kuryakin explained: "You see, Napoleon, the reason why I came here with Stephanie is that she's trying to eradicate a drug gang, but somebody blew her cover. She was shot, and that's how we met each other. When we tried to reach UNCLE headquarters, they were waiting for us and they tried to kill us. So I decided to look for an outside help, meaning you."

Solo leaned back in the comfy armchair. "And what makes you think that I feel like going back to work, after all these years?"

Illya's smiled knowingly, and said: "The fact that you cannot have changed so much as to refuse your help to a lady in distress."

Solo snorted, but did not deny his former partner's statement. "What exactly do you expect me to do? I'm a little bit out of practice, you know."

Stephanie interjected: "If you're as out of practice as Illya, then no sweat!"

The Russian added: "I'm sure you still have a couple of guns at least, right?"

"Sure, but I must confess that I never kept practicing, so my aim might be a little worse than what it used to be."

Kuryakin commented: "It's never been especially good, anyway, so that is not going to make much of a difference." The twinkle in his blue eyes showed that he was teasing his friend, enjoying the complicity they once again shared.

"We will need a plan, Illya."

"That's why we're here, my friend. Do you think I finally broke fifteen years of silence just to put my hands on your guns? It's your brain I need. _And _your connections."

Solo looked at him suspiciously. "What connections are you talking about?"

"Come on, Napoleon, do you think I didn't keep an eye on you after you left UNCLE? Discretely, of course."

"I see. So you kept an eye on me, and I couldn't even know where you were and how you were doing?"

Stephanie interrupted the developing argument. "Hey, would you stop fighting like an old married couple? We need to focus now."

Solo decided not to press the subject. "You're right, Stephanie. So, what _connections _of mine do you need, exactly?"

Kuryakin asked: "Do you still know that crook that used to buy drugs downtown?"

Napoleon looked like he was about to make another sharp comment at the Russian's in-depth knowledge of his acquaintances, but a warning look from Stephanie stopped him in his tracks.

"I haven't seen him in a while, but I know where to find him. He would sell his mother for a hundred bucks."

"I don't want to buy his mother, I just want him to talk around about this new crack supplier in town."

Solo asked: "Meaning?"

"Me, of course," was Kuryakin's blunt answer.

Solo retorted: "Are you out of your Bolshevik mind? Do you expect them to believe that a fashion designer suddenly turned drug dealer?"

At Illya's stunned stare, he commented: "Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

The blond slowly rose from the couch, with a forbidding look that turned his eyes the color of a stormy ocean. "You knew. You knew all along."

"Yes, I did." Solo admitted, not daring to meet his friend's accusing stare, then added: "You're not the only one who knows how to follow the tracks of someone who doesn't want to be found anymore."

"Then why didn't _you _try to contact me?"

Solo's voice raised again. "Well, I figured that if you didn't want to have anything to do with me anymore, why should I impose myself on you? You were obviously in your best oyster mood, and there wasn't a thing I could do to change your mind."

Stephanie briefly looked at the ceiling, then she also stood up and yelled: "THAT'S ENOUGH! Would you PLEASE stop bickering? We're wasting precious time."

The two men had the decency of looking contrived, and Kuryakin sat down again in the couch, asking: "All right, enough of this. What do you suggest, Napoleon?"

"I suggest I play the supplier. They certainly wouldn't know a computer dealer, would they?"

Stephanie answered: "Very unlikely. But that sounds like a pretty dangerous plan, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon turned on his charm again, and looked at her with his best flirtatious smile. "Please, call me Napoleon." Then he added, more seriously: "It's probably as dangerous as when you infiltrated that same organization, don't you think?"

Stephanie couldn't resist the spell of those soft brown eyes, and answered: "I guess you're right. After all, you two did break up quite a few similar organizations in the past, didn't you?"

Kuryakin interjected: "We did, but we're talking a long time ago. We don't know how things work now. But I'm counting on you to bring us up to date."

He also smiled at her, and Stephanie found it hard to decide which one was more captivating: Solo's open, warm and easy smile or Kuryakin's more introverted, timid and rare smile?

She decided to postpone her judgment to a more suitable moment, and set her mind to the plan that Napoleon was explaining.


	5. Chapter 5

The man was alone in the car, all senses alert. He was waiting for another car, which he knew could carry a lethal load.

He heard the sound of an engine approaching, and there it was: another vehicle, stopping right in front of him. The driver flashed the lights four times: the agreed signal.

He opened the door and got out, carrying a small suitcase. He was armed, but he knew that his small handgun could do little against the automatic guns the others undoubtedly carried. His only real weapon was their greed: he was counting on it to stay alive.

Two men got out of the other car, but he knew that at least two more were waiting in the back seat, ready to shoot if need be.

They approached each other warily, each trying to look relaxed. When they were one foot apart, the man in front – the boss, no doubt – asked: "Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon nodded, and asked: "Mr. Renard?"

The man also nodded, then said: "I believe you have something to show me, Mr. Solo."

"Indeed I do."

Napoleon lifted the suitcase and placed it on his car's bonnet. He slowly opened it and moved aside to let Renard look at its contents, saying: "Take your time."

The man extracted a sample from one of the many packets of tablets the suitcase carried, then gestured his thug to hand him the examination kit. He filled one test tube with a liquid taken from one of the kit's little bottles, then dropped the tablet into it. The liquid, originally colorless, immediately turned a bright pink color. The man nodded, apparently satisfied, and then repeated the procedure with five more tablets, each taken from a different packet. When his sampling was over, he addressed his new 'crack supplier'.

"Very well, Mr. Solo, I must say that the product you provide is top-quality, and your references seem solid. This is what I offer in return."

He produced another suitcase, opening it beside Napoleon's. It was full of money, neatly stacked in thick bundles. Each bundle was made of 100 dollar bills, and there were twenty such bundles. Napoleon extracted one of them, and quickly counted the bills with an expert eye, then repeated the process with all the bundles.

Satisfied, he said: "I accept your price, Mr. Renard. I must say, it's a pleasure to do business with you."

"Likewise."

Renard closed Solo's suitcase, took it and turned to leave, but stopped in mid stride, adding: "Oh, just one word of caution, Mr. Solo: should you try to sell this same product to other dealers, or to somehow infringe our contract, I will be forced to terminate our deal. Literally."

Napoleon said, with a self-confidence he wasn't really feeling: "I take your word for it."

Then he closed the suitcase full of money, and got in his car. He turned the engine on and left, half expecting the sound of firearms putting a premature end to his new career – and his life.

But he managed to reach his hotel safe and sound.

When he left the car to the valet, he went straight to his suite, unable to suppress the anxiety he was still feeling. Once inside, he poured himself a good shot of fine bourbon, trying to relax his nerves. Awfully out of practice, that's what he was.

When he heard a soft knock at his door, followed by three louder ones, he recognized the signal and opened the door. Illya and Stephanie stepped in; they were both completely clad in black, and they were carrying a bag full of electronic devices.

Putting the bag on the floor, Illya said: "Your old acquaintance has very good connections, and above all was pretty convincing. Not only Renard liked the stuff you sold him, but he also intends to keep you as his supplier, for he hasn't tried to kill you."

Napoleon glared at him: "Thanks. I'm glad you didn't give me this nice reassuring talk before I volunteered as bait."

Then he asked: "Did you manage to record the whole transaction?"

Illya answered, a boyish smile lighting his blue eyes: "Oh yes. Both video and audio. These new devices you gave me are astounding, Napoleon. I wish we had these little babies back then."

Solo smiled, fondly remembering that his friend loved all kinds of electronic gadgets.

He extracted a small videotape from the bag, then disappeared into his office, saying: "Let me transfer this into my computer, so I can make copies of it. It will take a minute. In the meantime, help yourselves at the bar."

Stephanie volunteered to prepare the drinks, and asked Illya: "What are you having?"

The Russian answered rather distractedly: "Vodka, thank you."

The woman poured the drinks, handed the blond his glass, and asked him: "What's the matter, Illya? You have a strange look on your face."

Kuryakin took the glass, shook his head and said: "It's nothing. I was just thinking that this was too easy."

The woman relaxed, also helped by the first sip of her drink, and sat beside him on the couch.

"Why should plans always go wrong?"

"Ever heard of Murphy's law?"

Stephanie laughed. "Sure. But it's not a rock-steady law. Sometimes it just doesn't apply."

Illya was skeptical. "Most times it does. Especially when the stakes are high."

Stephanie put a hand on Illya's forearm, squeezing encouragingly. "Come one, Illya. You didn't strike me as the pessimistic type. Why can't things work out as they are supposed to do, just for once?"

Illya put his own hand over hers and absent-mindedly started to gently rub the back with his thumb, appreciating its coolness and softness. He wished he could share her confidence, but he couldn't get rid of that nagging feeling.

But suddenly Stephanie moved on the couch, sitting closer to him. She touched his chin with the tip of two fingers, gently pulled his face to hers, and murmured: "Earth to Illya. Are you still with me?"

He looked deep into her sparkling eyes, once again marveling at how green they were, and smiled.

"I'm all yours, Stephanie."

Her face became serious as she said: "Watch your words, Mr. Kuryakin: I might take them literally."

He also turned grave, and laced her hand with his. "Maybe you should."

They looked at each other for a very long time, neither daring to make the first move, their faces only inches away, when suddenly Napoleon came into the room, breaking the moment. He stopped in mid-stride, but it was too late: Illya and Stephanie repositioned themselves on the couch and sat at a safe distance.

Napoleon's keen eyes didn't miss the woman's quickened breathing and his friend's flushed cheeks, but he decided to behave nonchalantly.

"Say, Stephanie, I just thought of something: don't UNCLE agents work in pairs anymore?"

"Oh yes, we still do."

"Then what happened to your partner?"

The woman's face turned gloomy when she answered:

"Jeffrey. His cover was blown together with mine. He was taken down when I was shot. I don't think he survived. He was shot right in the heart."

Napoleon sat in front of the woman, whose mood he had involuntarily spoiled.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But what if he survived? Could he have told them where to find you? You told me that they tracked you down to Illya's home."

Stephanie's reaction was intense. "No way! He wouldn't blow the whistle on me. Not even if he were wounded."

Napoleon tried to be as tactful as possible. "These people can be very persuasive. I'm sure you realize that."

Stephanie bored into Solo's eyes. "Would you have given Illya away, back then?"

He sighed. "I see your point."

Illya asked her: "Is there a reason why you haven't contacted your Sir Raleigh, yet?"

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I have. I still have my communicator, it's hidden in my watch. I told him what happened, and I also asked him to describe your features."

The two men were flabbergasted. Illya said: "Why? You didn't believe me?"

"I had no idea what you looked like. There are no pictures of you at UNCLE. I had to make sure. What if you were an impostor?"

Napoleon asked: "You probably did the right thing, but did you tell him everything else? About me and our plan?"

"I had to. He's my boss. He wanted to know how I was going to proceed with my mission. But I didn't tell him where you live."

Illya mumbled: "Thank God for small favors."

She angrily denied the implied accusation: "Are you suggesting I shouldn't trust my own boss?"

Napoleon tried to smooth ruffled feathers. "Of course not, Stephanie. We were just wondering how they managed to follow you to Illya's place and then to UNCLE HQs."

"Illya speculated that maybe they bugged his car."

"Yes, but why take the trouble of bugging his car, when they could simply get rid of you – both of you – while you were still at his premises? You told me you were wounded, and Illya was still unaware of the whole affair. That was their best chance. Why spoil it?"

The woman considered. "Mmmh, you have a good point, there. But suspecting Sir Raleigh? Get serious. It would be like suspecting your late Mr. Waverly. It just doesn't make any sense."

Napoleon said: "Here's what you should do, Stephanie. Call Sir Raleigh, and ask him if he mentioned anything to any other agents. Will you do that for me?"

He flashed his best smile at her, eliciting a nod and a thankful look from those green eyes.

He meaningfully pointed at her watch with an inviting gesture, and then jerked his head towards the door to ask Illya to follow him out of the room, allegedly to give her privacy.

While they were softly closing the living room door, the two former partners exchanged a meaningful look.

* * *

The trio of UNCLE agents didn't sleep much that night. Sitting at Napoleon's round dining table, they settled their plan's last details.

They were to meet another UNCLE agent, sent by Sir Raleigh, at a specific address near the downtown bar where Renard pushed his drugs. A special police squad was to meet them at that same address, to quickly look at the evidence on tape on the cutting-edge equipment of their tactical van. The last action was supposed to be a hopefully nice and quick raid inside the bar, once they made sure that Renard was indeed in his lair. The squad was also supposed to bring them three bullet-proof vests, since Stephanie insisted she participate in the raid, and she knew that the two former agents would want to do the same.

The only things that didn't quite sound right was that Sir Raleigh didn't disclose the name of the agent they were supposed to meet, just mentioning that "it would be a pleasant surprise for her".

Illya grumbled: "I don't like surprises, nice or otherwise. They make me nervous."

Stephanie tried to reassure him. "Oh, come on, Illya. I told you that we can trust Sir Raleigh. It's just his British sense of humor, I'm sure. He's probably sending the agent that mentored me when I started out. I do work with him on occasions, and I haven't seen him in a while. Over a year, actually."

Illya mumbled something unintelligible, so Stephanie said: "Well, are we all set? The appointment is at 5:00 am, so we can actually afford a couple of hours' rest. I think we shouldn't miss the opportunity."

Napoleon smiled. "Always take all the chances to eat and sleep you can get, right?"

She smiled back: "Right. It's still one of the golden rules."

They all stood, and Solo folded out the couch, which turned out to be an already-made bed.

"You can sleep here, Stephanie. Illya and I will share my bed. Luckily it's big enough for two."

Illya commented: "For some reason, I had no doubts about it!"

"You never know who might show up at your door, tovarisch!", he answered.

The two men said goodnight and disappeared into Napoleon's bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

At 4:45 am, Stephanie, Napoleon and Illya were sitting in Napoleon's car one block away from Renard's bar, waiting for the mysterious UNCLE agent to show up. He was supposed to park near their car and reach them on foot.

They were still looking out for any car that might approach them, when suddenly half a dozen men materialized all around their parking spot. Heavily armed men. Renard's men.

They were all aiming their automatic guns at them, so they didn't stand a chance. The men opened the car's doors and silently gestured them out with their weapons.

The three people inside the car had no choice but to obey. They were thoroughly searched and relieved of all their weapons. Even Illya's well hidden knife was found and removed.

Once they were completely helpless, Renard approached them with a self-conscious grin.

"Well well. Look who's here: our brand new crack supplier. Or should I say our old UNCLE agent? Did you really think you could fool me that easily, Mr. Solo?"

Not expecting an answer, he turned to Illya.

"And our good samaritan, here, alias the famous fashion designer Vanya, alias the former UNCLE agent Illya Kuryakin. My, you keep yourself busy, don't you?"

Illya glared at him, but Renard was already addressing Stephanie.

"And you, my dear; you've been a pain in the back since the first time you set foot in my premises. Your pretty face tricked me quite well, I must admit it. But luckily I had a very good friend who warned me of your real purpose." He gestured toward a rapidly approaching man. Stephanie's shocked gape easily gave his identity away: that was the infamous Jeffrey, her supposedly dead partner, who was looking surprisingly well for a man who had been shot in the heart.

When Jeffrey reached them, Stephanie asked, her voice so sad that Illya felt an irresistible urge to hug and comfort her: "Why, Jeffrey?"

The man smiled smugly and said: "Why? I thought your first question would be how did I survive that shot to the heart."

"I don't care how you survived. You were probably wearing a vest or were shot with blank bullets. I want to know why you had the guts to help these people, betraying your own partner in the process."

"The reason is simple enough, my dear Steph: money. At UNCLE, we risk our lives for a miserable wage. Renard pays me the equivalent of one year's salary for one month's work. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Stephanie's face sagged at his answer. "Yes, it does. But I really didn't think you were so rotten."

His face twisted with rage, Jeffrey slapped her violently with the back of his hand, then yelled at the kneeling woman: "How dare you judge me? You're no better than I am!"

Wiping the blood dripping from her mouth, the woman growled: "Maybe not, but I would never have sold you out. You realize that they are going to kill us, don't you?"

A vicious smile on her ex-partner's lips sent chills down her spine.

"Oh, no, Steph, you're wrong. They are not going to kill you; I am."

While Stephanie gaped at him disbelievingly, Renard interjected: "You see, my dear, Jeffrey has to prove his loyalty to me. What better way than killing his nosy former partner, along with her new allies? But don't worry for his conscience: he really doesn't mind too much."

Jeffrey looked at her with a contemptuous expression.

"He's right, you know? I've never liked to work with you. The perfectionist, the impeccable, the immaculate UNCLE agent, always ready to jump at Sir Raleigh's command. If you really want to know, it will be a great pleasure to kill you and your friends: you make me sick."

While Jeffrey was spitting all his hatred at Stephanie, Napoleon slowly and unobtrusively moved away, taking advantage of all the fuss the traitor was making, attracting everybody's attention. His plan was as simple as it was desperate: to hit the closest armed man and relieve him of his weapon. He knew that Illya didn't miss his slow movements and that he would take the chance he was buying him.

He had almost reached his target, when Jeffrey's trained eye noticed his move and immediately realized his purpose. Without warning, he raised his silenced gun and aimed it at Solo's chest. As soon as Illya understood what he was about to do, he shouted a warning, but it was too late: a muffled 'pop' was immediately followed by a low moan by Napoleon, who slowly started to collapse, holding his chest, a pained expression on his face. Illya ran at his side, with a desperate look in the blue eyes. He held his friend and eased him to the ground, supporting his head. A red stain was rapidly spreading over his heart, soaking his white shirt.

Kuryakin's voice was broken when he softly called his name. "Napoleon?"

With a great effort, Solo opened his eyes and tried to talk, but all that came out of his mouth was a trickle of blood. He closed his eyes again and slowly went limp in his friend's arms.

Illya put two fingers on his neck, looking for a pulse, and found none.

Stephanie tentatively approached them, and asked, in a small voice: "Is he...?"

Kuryakin closed his eyes and said, shakily: "Yes. He's dead." He then turned at Napoleon's murderer and growled: "You took the first chance you got, didn't you?"

Stephanie looked at him quizzically. She knew that his friend's sudden death shocked him, but that was a pretty weird comment to make. Suddenly she realized that Illya was simply trying to send a message to _her_, telling her to be ready to take the first chance to fight back.

She was ready, all right, but she didn't see any chance at all. Especially now that Solo was dead.

Illya now was plunging at Jeffrey, his handsome features distorted by hatred and desperation. Taken aback, the traitor didn't have the time to aim and shoot, so Illya actually managed to seize him. The impact sent the gun flying.

The two men were struggling crazily, and they were too close for Renard's men to take a chance at shooting, so they just stood there, avidly watching the fight. Illya's despair gave him a strength he didn't know he had, and he punched his younger opponent madly, effectively outmatching him. While Renard's men were enjoying the fight and shouting their disappointment at their new ally, they didn't notice that a certain _corpse _was actually moving.

Unnoticed in all the fuss, Napoleon slowly got up and moved behind one of the men who were standing farther from the two struggling opponents. Nobody saw him grab the man in a unrelenting hold to the throat, quickly and silently suffocating him. As soon as he disposed of the first man, Solo grabbed his gun, then proceeded to the next one, successfully repeating the procedure.

He managed to take down three of them, before someone noticed his actions. Somebody shouted: "Watch out! Solo is alive!"

Everybody turned, but Napoleon was already firing the automatic guns he was holding in both hands. The three remaining men scattered frantically, desperate to find a hiding spot.

Napoleon threw his spare gun to Stephanie who, thanks to Illya's warning, didn't let the surprise paralyze her, and reacted quickly. She quickly disposed of one man. Those who were still alive were now breaking up and running away, in search of a better firing position. But none of them got to safety: they were both taken down by the deadly barrage fire from the two UNCLE agents.

Only Renard managed to escape, sneaking out of the fight as soon as the first bullets started flying.

Illya and Jeffrey were still struggling, but the latter was clearly losing the fight. Illya's last fist knocked him almost unconscious.

When the deafening sound of firearms finally subsided, a quick check allowed them to make sure that they were actually the only survivors. Stephanie was finally able to express all her surprise at seeing Napoleon safe and sound. She said, smiling: "Don't tell me this was all a set up."

Solo answered, proudly sporting his blood-soaked shirt and wiping the red stains from his chin with a handkerchief: "You bet it was. A good old-fashioned fake blood blister smashed against my vest-protected chest and another one hidden in the mouth. Piece of cake, really. The only variable was Jeffrey's aim; I was counting on him to shoot me in the heart, not in the head. Call it a calculated risk, AKA Solo's luck." Then he added, massaging his chest: "Although I must say that a bullet's impact still hurts like hell, vest or no vest!"

The woman was flabbergasted. "But this means that you knew about Jeffrey all along."

Solo shook his head. "We didn't know for sure. But we had suspicions. Who else could have hunted you down to Illya's place and then to UNCLE HQs? We tended to agree with you that Sir Raleigh was above suspicion, so the only person left was your partner, getting information from your unsuspecting boss. You didn't actually see Jeffrey dying. You just presumed he was dead when you saw him being shot at, but as you just witnessed, looks can be deceptive."

Stephanie remarked: "But Illya's reaction at your _death _looked so real. He genuinely seemed desperate."

Napoleon smiled. "He's always been quite the actor. You should have seen some of his performances in the old days. He even posed as Lawrence of Arabia's son!"

She said, shaking her head and smiling: "I can almost picture him. And tell me one thing: when exactly did you concoct this complicated plan?"

"A few hours ago, while you were immersed in your peaceful and unsuspecting sleep. We might be old, but when we join forces we can get pretty efficient, don't you think?"

Stephanie was impressed: "Absolutely. And you were afraid of being out of practice? You two outsmarted us all: me, Jeffrey, and Renard. I wish I had seen you during your years of active service! You must have been something. No wonder your team is still in our textbooks."

Napoleon tried to hide his smug expression, and failed miserably. Trying to sound modest, he commented: "All in a day's work. Now let's lend Illya a hand: your ex-partner is waking up and is getting pretty upset."

When they looked at Jeffrey, they could see that he was bleeding from the mouth and from several cuts to the face, but he made a wicked smile at Illya and said, panting:

"You haven't won, you Russian son of a bitch. Renard has rigged his whole place with explosives. Soon you will end up with a handful of dust instead of evidence. And the explosion will probably also blow you to pieces."

Illya's wide smile in response to Jeffrey's remark drew blood from his cracked lip. "You know nothing of explosions, greenhorn. I found out the explosives ages ago, and I had ample time to defuse them before falling in your _trap_."

His face twisted by rage, Jeffrey swiftly extracted a knife from a sheath hidden on his calf and viciously plunged it into the unsuspecting Russian, skillfully aiming at the only part the vest was letting exposed, and brutally pushing up. He growled, triumphantly: "Defuse_ this_."

Illya's surprised expression turned into one of pain, while slowly collapsing to the floor, holding the knife that was sending waves of searing pain into his body.

Napoleon didn't hesitate: he fired at Jeffrey, aiming at his head, and not missing his target. Then he ran at Illya's side. Stephanie got there at the same time, a horrified expression on her features, and they both kneeled beside the wounded Russian.

The woman pleaded Solo: "Please, Napoleon, tell me this is another set up."

Solo shook his head sadly. "No, Stephanie, this is for real. That bastard got him right below his vest. Don't remove the knife; it's actually stopping the bleeding."

Then he addressed his friend, who was barely conscious: "Illya, can you hear me? Help is on its way. Do you understand? You'll be in hospital in a flash."

Kuryakin opened his eyes and tried to answer, but he only managed to cough, causing a trickle of frothy blood to ooze from his mouth. The similarity to Napoleon's fake death was staggering, but Stephanie refused to acknowledge the warning signs her brain was sending off, although she immediately realized the danger. "He's been stabbed in the lung. He's got a pneumothorax. Illya, don't try to talk. Please."

But the obstinate blond didn't stop his attempts at talking. After a few more coughs, he finally managed to utter one word to Stephanie, looking at her with glazed, pain-filled eyes.

"S... stay?"

Stephanie grabbed his hand and squeezed, trying to fight back the tears she felt stinging in her eyes: "Just try to keep me away, you stubborn Russian." Then she leaned forward to softly stroke his hair and lightly kiss him on his forehead, whispering: "Just hang in there, Illya. Do it for me."

But Kuryaking couldn't hear her anymore, nor could he hear the area filling with the tearing sound of sirens and the blue and red strobe lights of police cars and ambulances.


	7. Chapter 7

A persistent beeping sound. A pungent disinfectant smell. The pleasant embrace of clean, crisp sheets. A vague feeling of danger. The overwhelming need to open his eyes. The frustrating realization that he couldn't. He heard somebody moan, and he belatedly realized that it was him.

Then a voice, a pleasant, welcome voice, whispering near his ear, and a cool hand gently stroking his forehead.

"Shh, Illya, stop tossing, you will remove the IV. It's all right. You're in hospital, you're being taken care of. You're out of danger, now. Please, try to relax."

He knew that voice, he was sure, but he couldn't remember who it belonged to. Somebody important, he was certain of that, but the name just kept eluding him. No matter, he knew he could trust the voice, so there was no impending danger. He just wished he could clear up his mind long enough to remember what happened to him. But his brain felt foggy, and he couldn't concentrate. He decided to stop fighting and do what the voice said, so he relaxed, and let his mind drift into sleep again.

* * *

Napoleon peeped into the room, holding two cups of coffee. Stephanie was standing near Illya's bed, holding his hand. He approached her, asking: "Did he wake up?"

She turned, and he could see from the puffiness of her eyes that she had cried.

"Yes, just briefly. He was upset and almost removed the IV. But he's calmer, now. He fell asleep again."

"Then what's wrong?" he asked softly.

The woman left the Russian's side and sat heavily on the chair by the bed.

"Oh, Napoleon, I feel so bad. It's all my fault."

He squatted down in front of her and handed her one steaming cup. "Come on, Stephanie, you know better than blaming yourself. You did nothing wrong."

"Yes, I did. I involved him in my mission to begin with, and then I made a terrible mistake when I didn't understand Jeffrey's real nature. Illya is a wonderful person and he almost died because of me."

Solo looked intensely at her, and asked: "Did you stab him?"

"Of course not."

"So you have nothing to blame. Illya's decision to become involved in your mission probably saved your life, and I'm sure he would far prefer to be the one laying in that bed. He would probably kill me if he knew I told you, but I think you have struck a chord with our unperturbed Russian."

She raised her head at those words. "What do you mean?"

Napoleon smiled sweetly. "I think he likes you, and believe me, that's very unusual for him. You must really be special to him. So stop crying for him and start thinking how to make him feel better next time he wakes up."

Stephanie didn't answer, and buried her face in her coffee cup instead, but the redder shade of her pretty cheeks told Napoleon's expert eye that she probably reciprocated whatever his old partner was feeling for her.

* * *

His brain was much clearer this time. When he started hearing those irritating beeps again, he immediately realized he was in a hospital. His whole body ached, but breathing was what hurt most. _Broken ribs, maybe?_, he wondered. No, not quite. The pain was different, it was more... what was the word? Yes, more localized. And much sharper. Sharp... yes, he remembered now: he was stabbed by that treacherous son of a _cyka_. That probably also explained the annoying tube stuck up his nose. _Chyort_! He hated having tubes and IVs violating his body.

Well, at least he was alive, so he couldn't complain too much.

But he needed to know what happened to Napoleon and Stephanie. He vaguely remembered hearing their voices the first time he woke up, when his brain refused to cooperate, so they had to be OK. But he had to make sure. Slowly, excruciatingly, he forced his head to turn sideways, and what he saw tugged a small smile at the corners of his mouth: Stephanie was crouched in the chair beside his bed, and despite the uncomfortable position she was sound asleep. Her clothes were tousled and her hair was disheveled, but she looked just beautiful.

A male voice from the other side of the bed said in a quiet voice: "She means a lot to you, doesn't she, chum?"

He started to turn his head, but Napoleon spared him the effort and moved around the bed. He cautiously sat by his side, careful not to touch any IV lines. He grabbed his friend's free hand and squeezed.

"You gave us quite a scare, Illya."

The Russian laboriously cleared his throat, and croaked: "Reflexes... not as fast as...used to be."

Napoleon smiled. "Oh, but you've done just great, partner. Next time, though, make sure you wear a more protecting vest. Something in the line of a medieval armor, maybe?"

At Kuryakin's questioning look, he explained: "You seem to attract troubles like honey attracts bears. And somehow you always end up taking the brunt of all those trigger-happy criminals."

Illya swallowed hard, looking like he was trying to fight nausea, and managed to retort: "More like... knife-happy."

Napoleon smiled softly, relieved that his friend was feeling good enough to joke about his predicament. He let go of the Russian's hand and slowly rose.

"I'm out of here, tovarisch, but I'm coming back tomorrow to check on you. I leave you in good hands, though", and meaningfully looked at Stephanie's crouched form.

When he got out of the room, he made sure to close the door loudly enough to wake Stephanie. She blinked a few times, moaned from the pain in her neck, and immediately noticed that Illya was awake, and that he was actually looking at her.

She rose and cautiously approached the bed, smiling.

"Illya. I'm so glad you're awake. How do you feel?"

She was saddened by the weakness in his voice.

"Have... felt... better."

She took Napoleon's place at the side of his bed and she too took his hand, soothingly running her other hand in his silky hair. The feeling was so nice that he closed his eyes.

Stephanie thought that he was in pain, and started to stand to call a nurse, but he refused to let go of her hand and weakly tugged her back at his side.

"Don't... go. You promised, remember?"

Stephanie sat down again and couldn't help smiling. "Yes, I remember."

He added, his voice sounding stronger by the minute: "You said that I had to try to keep you away."

She nodded. "Yes, I said that."

He looked into her sparkling green eyes. God, he would _never _get used to their amazing color.

"Well, I don't want to keep you away. I want to keep you by my side."

"Right now your side is in a pretty bad shape, so maybe we should postpone this talk until you are feeling better."

He eyed her suspiciously.

"Are you trying to politely get rid of me?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm trying to politely refrain from doing what I would very much like to do right now, but can't because I'm scared of hurting you."

He smiled his typical and irresistible shy smile, and softly asked: "And what would that be?"

Her cheeks were the same color of her coppery hair when she answered, almost whispering: "I want to kiss you, Mr. Kuryakin. So badly it hurts."

He squeezed her hand and said, in a very soft voice: "I couldn't let anything hurt you, so I think you should do it right now."

Careful not to lean on him, she slowly bent forward and grazed his lips with hers. They were so soft she couldn't help lingering a little longer, but when she felt his lips move against hers, she couldn't resist deepening the kiss. Her hand went to his hair of its own volition, and when she heard him moan she felt her whole body respond to him.

She came to her senses when she heard the heart monitor accelerate its beeping sounds to an alarming speed. She immediately broke the kiss, although she didn't stop stroking his soft hair.

At his hurt look, she said: "We don't want to send you into cardiac arrest, do we?"

Illya cast a resentful look at the monitor, and mumbled: "Blasted machines. They take all the privacy away. Not to mention the romance. What kind of heart monitor doesn't let your heart enjoy itself?"

A voice from behind startled them both: " A wise one. Would you mind getting off his bed, miss? He's supposed to be a critical patient, you know?"

A nurse had entered the room, clearly warned by the monitor's frantic beeps, and now was glaring at them, arms crossed.

Smiling sheepishly, Stephanie immediately complied, eliciting a disappointed look from the Russian.

The nurse teased him: "Oh, come now, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm sure I will keep you busy enough so that you won't miss the young lady."

He replied, pouting: "Her methods are more effective than yours. And far more enjoyable."

The nurse retorted: "Be nice with the person who gives you pain killers."

Stephanie couldn't catch Illya's grumble, since she was already leaving the room, pausing just long enough to look at him and convey all her feelings and unspoken promises in one single, meaningful glance.

**THE END**


End file.
